No one believed the whispers—until he stepped into the picture.
A man who seemed to rise from the shadows overnight, seizing power so swiftly that the world barely had time to blink. In a single night, half the world bent to his will. Four continents fell under his command, and in his empire, his word was the only law.
It didn't happen gradually. There was no long, bloody war to see it coming, no chain of events that could be traced back like a trail of breadcrumbs. One day, the balance of power was stable—or at least as stable as the underworld could be. The next day, everything had shifted. Kings who had ruled for decades vanished. Syndicates that had stood for generations crumbled like dry leaves. Governments found themselves obeying unseen orders. And the world… the world learned a new truth: you did not need to see the man who ruled you to know that you belonged to him.
They called themselves the Eagles—his chosen, his predators. To the outside world, they were nothing more than a myth whispered between gangsters and smugglers. But to those who knew better, they were the deadliest network the earth had ever seen. The Eagles didn't just control territories; they owned them. Every street, every deal, every shadow that fell under their watch moved according to their will—and his will above all.
But even predators needed order. And so the empire split into four feared factions.
Claws — rulers of Africa. They tore down anything in their path, crushing rebellions before they could even take shape. If the Claws set their sights on you, your only choice was to vanish, because fighting back was the same as signing your death warrant.
Wings — masters of South America. They struck fast, silent, and without mercy. One moment you thought yourself safe, surrounded by your men; the next moment you were gone, erased so cleanly that no trace of you remained. The Wings were not soldiers—they were phantoms.
Beaks — dominators of Australia. Ruthless and unyielding, they were the enforcers, the ones who made examples out of those foolish enough to defy. Their brutality was not mindless—it was calculated, deliberate, and it was always public. The Beaks made sure the world remembered every scream.
Keen — the most dangerous of all. They served no one but him. They were not a faction; they were his personal executioners, loyal to the bone, devoted beyond reason. If the Claws were destruction, the Wings stealth, and the Beaks fear, then the Keen were inevitability. Once the Keen were sent, your end was already written—you just hadn't reached it yet.
But "him" was not a name people spoke freely.
In fact, people didn't even like to refer to him directly. A glance, a shift in tone, a quiet pause in conversation—that was all the acknowledgement anyone dared.
Aariz.
The name alone was enough to silence a room. To the underworld, Aariz was not just a man—he was a myth wrapped in flesh, a devil in human form. There were stories about him, yes, but no one knew which were true and which were crafted to deepen the fear. Some said he could walk into the most heavily guarded room in the world and leave without a single guard realizing he had been there. Others claimed he could command loyalty with nothing more than a glance.
In the underworld, speaking his name was like knocking on death's door—except death, in this case, was patient, intelligent, and in no hurry to open the door right away. Sometimes it was worse to be spared than to be killed, because when Aariz spared you, it meant he had found a use for you… and you would never be free again.
Why did Aariz take half the world in one night?
What happened under the cover of that darkness?
Theories ran wild. Some claimed there had been a secret war, a massacre so silent and thorough that the outside world never even knew it happened. Others whispered that it had been a betrayal—that the old rulers had invited him in, thinking they could use him, only to realize too late that they had opened the gates for their own destruction.
Only those who were there know the truth—and they don't live long enough to tell it.
Still, there were fragments of the story that made their way into the whispers. A meeting in a nameless city, somewhere in the heart of neutral territory. The presence of every major crime lord, political broker, and arms dealer the world had to offer. The deal that was supposed to keep the balance of power intact for another decade. And then… the blackout.
The lights went out.
The guns went silent.
And when the world woke up the next morning, there were new kings.
No one saw him that night. No one claimed to. Yet somehow, every survivor swore they had felt his presence. A pressure in the air. A sense that someone was watching—not from the shadows, but from above them all, like a predator circling high in the sky, waiting to strike.
The Eagles emerged from that night fully formed, their four factions spreading across the globe like an unstoppable tide. And at the heart of it all, the man they served—Aariz—remained a mystery. No photographs. No recordings. No confirmed sightings. Only rumors, fragments, and the occasional story of someone who had met him… and paid the price for speaking about it.
Some said he was young. Others said he was older than he appeared. Some swore he was a businessman with a legitimate empire, using the underworld as his personal chessboard. Others whispered he had no identity at all—that "Aariz" was not a person, but a mask worn by many, passed down to keep the fear alive forever.
But one truth remained unshakable: it didn't matter who he was. It only mattered that he was. And that somewhere, at any moment, he could be watching.
The world didn't belong to kings, presidents, or governments anymore.
It belonged to a shadow.
And that shadow had a name no one dared to speak.